


Behind The Clouds

by Marblez



Category: JAG
Genre: Alternate Universe - BDSM, F/M, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Multi, Prisoner of War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-16
Updated: 2018-12-16
Packaged: 2019-09-20 09:40:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17020287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marblez/pseuds/Marblez
Summary: When Sergei had turned down his half-brothers offer to move to America he had never imagined that he would find himself in his current situation, shot down by the rebels and taken prisoner. Being a submissive put him in a very vulnerable position, he knew, and left him fearing what lay ahead.AN: This story is set, with her permission, in the alternate Stargate Atlantis universe “The Ties That Bind” created by Keira Marcos (keiramarcos.com) which was inspired by xanthe 's works “Coming Home” and “General & Dr. Sheppard.”





	Behind The Clouds

**Disclaimer:** I don't own the recognizable characters.

 **Summary:** When Sergei had turned down his half-brothers offer to move to America he had never imagined that he would find himself in his current situation, shot down by the rebels and taken prisoner. Being a submissive put him in a very vulnerable position, he knew, and left him fearing what lay ahead.

 **AN:** This story is set, with her permission, in the alternate Stargate Atlantis universe “The Ties That Bind” created by Keira Marcos (keiramarcos.com) which was inspired by xanthe 's works “Coming Home” and “General & Dr. Sheppard.”

** BEHIND THE CLOUDS  
** **CHAPTER ONE**

_“Russian”_ “English”

**Part One**

“… _mayday…mayday…”_

Fighting with the jerking joystick Sergei desperately attempted to regain control of the damaged helicopter whilst his copilot, Yevgeny, made their distress call as blood trickled from the wound on his forehead. He couldn't believe that this was happening again.

It was the second time in as many months that his helicopter had been struck by a rocket propelled grenade, one supplied by his own corrupt superiors to their enemies, causing enough damage to send the craft tumbling out of the sky in an uncontrollable descent.

Unlike the first time, however, they were going down deep inside of enemy territory.

“… _we are going down…our coordinates are…”._

Yevgeny didn't have to opportunity to share their coordinates with their comrades back at their home base as it was at that moment that they hit the ground with enough force to flip the helicopter onto its side, the main blades continuing to spin until they snapped off with a shower of sparks which only added to the flames already spreading through the aircraft.

“… _holy shit…_ ”

Sergei groaned in pain.

His vision was fuzzy, a dark hue beginning to encroach around the edges, his thoughts sluggish which was why it took him a few moments to figure out why he couldn't breath properly. It wasn't just because of the smoke. It was because of the angle the aircraft had landed in he was literally hanging from his harness, the straps digging in across his chest.

It took him longer than it should have to get the release to work.

“… _Yevgeny_?” he called out as his body thudded down on top of his comrade. “… _Yev_?”

Nothing.

He struggled into a position where he could get a good look at his friends face, reeling back as he found himself gazing into a pair of completely vacant green eyes. Yevgeny was dead.

“ _…I'm sorry…_ ” Sergei gasped, reaching out to gently close his friends eyes before scrambling to get out of the helicopter which was rapidly going up in flames. “ _Yev_ , _please, forgive me_ …”

A dislocated shoulder that he hadn't been aware of made itself known as he hit the ground, pain lancing through his body as he forced himself to roll onto his front and crawl away from the burning helicopter. It was only a matter of time before the growing flames reached the…

Letting out an involuntary cry of shock Sergei dropped back to the ground and covered his head with his arms as the flames reached the fuel line, causing the helicopter to explode.

Something hot and sharp pierced the back of his shoulder, the one that was also dislocated, slicing through the fabric of his flight suit and lodging into his flesh. Burning wreckage fell all around him, showering sparks all over the area and setting fire to some of the surrounding flora and fauna as the larger pieces of wreckage thudded down to the ground behind him.

“… _over here…_ ”

His head snapped up as he heard the unfamiliar voice filtering through the trees to his right accompanied by what sounded like five sets of heavy footfalls approaching his location.

“… _quickly_ …”

Gritting his teeth against the pain now positively surging around his body Sergei forced himself to rise to his feet, stumbling unsteadily as his vision swam. Clutching his injured arm to his chest, cradling it as gently as he could in the heat of the moment, he hurried into the dense trees in the opposite direction to that which the numerous voices were coming from.

As hopeless as the situation was he had to at least _try_ to evade them.

Making his way through the trees, occasionally bumping into them as his vision continued to swim as well as fading in and out of darkness, Sergei tried to remember everything he'd been taught in basic training about situations like this. Keep moving. Make as little noise as possible. Stay off of obvious paths and tracks. Cover your tracks. Don't leave a blood trail.

Of those instructions the ones he worried most about were the ones regarding his tracks.

He was in no fit shape to tread lightly, his mind too fuzzy, and he knew that he had to have broken branches on several of the trees as well as disturbing the dirt beneath his feet, the lingering dampness creating a thin layer of mud which was now covered with his footprints.

Fifteen minutes later his legs gave out suddenly, sending him down to the ground with an uncontrollable cry of pain just as a figure emerged from the trees directly ahead of him. As Sergei sat back on his heels, his knees sinking into the mud, several other men appeared.

“ _Ivan, bind his hands,”_ the man who had appeared first ordered sharply as he advanced on Sergei, moving his rifle to rest on his shoulder with the barrel pointing towards the sky. A deadly looking hunting knife was withdrawn from the back of the man's belt, drawing Sergei's attention away from the hands which had pulled his arms behind his back and were  now binding his wrists together with a coarse piece of rope. The flat side of the knife was placed under his chin, the sharp point dragging across his throat as he was forced to tilt his head up. “ _So, you managed to survive our little gift did you, soldier boy? Aren't you lucky?”_

An irrepressible shudder ran down his spine.

_“Were you able to relay the location of our base camp before you crashed, boy?”_

Yes, they had. They'd been on escort duty for a convoy before being ordered away to confirm a rumour which had reached their commanding officers. The rumour had proven to be mostly correct, only exaggerating the size of the Rebels base camp. Their confirmation of its location had been the last thing that Yevgeny had broadcast before they'd been hit, before they'd switched to a mayday call but there was no way in hell Sergei was going to tell them that. He might not agree with this war he was fighting, might even agree that it was corrupt and dirty, but that didn't mean he was willing to put the lives of his comrades at risk by sharing information with their enemy no matter how innocent that information might be.

 _“You're silence will not help you, boy,”_ the apparent leader growled, twisting the knife so as to inflict a small cut to Sergei's already bruised jawline. _“We have ways of making you talk.”_

Despite the fact that his vision was swimming even worse than it had been before Sergei somehow managed to find the strength to glare up at the man that was now his captor.

_“Looks like we've got a stubborn one on our hands, boys.”_

_“Good,”_ a younger man laughed, throwing a twig at the side of Sergei's head which caused him to flinch away despite the knife still held in close proximity to his throat. _“It's always more fun when they're stubborn. Hey, Yuri, can I have his boots? Mine are falling apart.”_

Yuri, the owner of the knife, didn't answer.

Instead his eyes were fixed on the side of Sergei's neck where his involuntary movement to avoid the muddy twig had revealed the edges of a very distinct tattoo. Still holding the blade to Sergei's neck the imposing man used his ring and little finger to pull down the collar of his flight suit, revealing the colourful tattoo in its entirety. There was no point in trying to claim that it was anything other than what it was, the traditional Russian folk design of numerous interwoven flowers in bright blues, greens, reds, yellows and oranges as recognisable in this particular region as the De Sade star or the Lotus blossom were known all over the world.

_“Looks like we've managed to capture ourselves a pretty little submissive, boys.”_

A feeling of dread settled in Sergei's stomach as the men reacted with cheers and whistles.

He had heard rumours of how submissive’s were treated in Prisoner of War camps. Had heard the same horror stories his fellow submissive’s had about the torture they'd suffered.

_“Ivan?”_

Sergei couldn’t help but let out a gasp of fear as a bag was suddenly pulled down over his head. It smelled absolutely disgusting which, combined with the thickness of the coarse fabric, made it very difficult for him to breath properly as he was hauled roughly to his feet.

 _“You'll tell us everything we want to know, little submissive,”_ Yuri chuckled coldly as they began walking Sergei back the way he had come, a man on either side of him holding him by his bound arms. His shoulder was so painful it was almost starting to feel numb, causing him to whimper softly. _“Everyone does. How much you suffer before you do is entirely up to you.”_

He couldn't help but berate himself silently for turning down his half-brothers offer of a new life with him in America. If he had taken him up on his more than generous offer then none of this, the crash and the torture that they promised was to come, would have happened.

Why hadn't he listened to Harm when he'd had the chance?

~ * ~

Clayton Webb was not a man who was easily rattled.

He couldn't afford to be, not in his line of work, and yet as he read the printed words of the report he had just been handed by one of his junior co-workers he couldn't seem to stop his hand from trembling, his body lurching sideways to drop down into his chair. Sergei, his submissive mates half-brother, had been shot down _again_ and his people had lost touch with him. Due to the fact that he had been flying behind enemy lines it was assumed that, had he or his co-pilot managed to survive, then they would have already been captured.

Under normal circumstances this would not have been distressing news as the Geneva Convention was in place to protect the rights of Prisoners of War. However, given the fact that Sergei, or rather Sergeant Sergei Zhukov of the 61st Air Defence Brigade, Russian Ground Forces, had been captured by a group of Chechen Rebels there was unfortunately no guarantee that they would adhere to the rules laid down by the international agreement.

There was also the fact that he was an unbonded submissive to take into account.

Snatching up his phone he dialled the extension he needed, chewing on his thumbnail whilst he waited for his colleague to answer his phone, “Jon? It’s Clay. I need to call in that favour.”

An hour later he was on a flight to Moscow.

~ * ~

Sergei couldn’t stop himself from yelping when the hood was finally removed, his eyelids snapping shut as even the pathetic amount of light given out by the single bulb hanging from the ceiling of the room he had been dragged into was too much for his vulnerable eyes after so long in the semi-darkness created by the bag. He couldn’t be sure how much time had passed since he was captured, it felts like hours but in reality it could have been mere minutes as the pain from his various injuries had been getting worse and worse, making him sluggish and slow to respond which certainly hadn’t helped him compensate for the way the bag had muffled his senses; all he had been able to see through the bag was the occasional looming shadow when the angle of light was right, nothing to actually help him in any way, and his hearing had reminded him of how if felt when your head was submerged in water.

A hand grabbed hold of the collar of his flight suit, tugging it down roughly to expose his brightly coloured house mark. Sergei let out a broken whimper, the pain in his injured shoulder flaring up sharply as the fabric was pulled taut. A deep chuckle, one that promised pain in all of the worst ways, came from the man inspecting the floral design on his neck.

After a long moment the hand released his collar, moving upwards to grab hold of his chin and tilting his head up so that his new captor could inspect his face. Sergei, his vision getting better with each passing second, risked a look at his captors face and gagged loudly, trying to turn his head away from the gruesome sight but the grip on his chin held him in place.

“ _No, I don’t suppose I’m handsome enough for a pretty little Russian Sub like you, am I?”_ his captor laughed somewhat bitterly, shaking Sergei’s head by his chin. _“Eyes up, Sub. Have a look at what your people have done to me. Don’t be shy. Take a good, long look at my face.”_

Sergei didn’t want to obey him but the grip on his chin was too painful to ignore.

His eyes flickered up, reluctantly taking in every detail of the rebels face; it looked as though the skin on the right side of his face had literally melted, completely covering his eye socket on its way down to disfigure the corner of his mouth. And his nose was just…gone…leaving behind a single hole in the shape of a nostril. The wounds were obviously reasonably recent but were definitely well on their way to healing, the inflamed redness just beginning to fade.

_“Not a pretty sight, is it?”_

There were similar scars down his right arm, completely visible thanks to the vest he was wearing, one of which passed through the tattoo identifying him as a _La Petit Mort_ Dom.

_“Was he alone?”_

This question was directed at the group of men who had originally captured him. They were loitering behind him, all of them squashed into the small space closest to the door as though they were afraid to completely enter. Looking at their commander Sergei could believe that.

_“We found one body in the wreckage and only one set of tracks leaving it. His.”_

The disfigured Dom still holding him by his chin let out a sigh of disappointment.

 _“Pity,”_ he muttered. _“We could do with some more pretty Subs to play with.”_

Sergei’s breath lodged in his chest as his legs seemed to turn to jelly, trembling wildly.

No.

They couldn’t…

He wouldn’t let them…

 _“I see you understand my meaning perfectly, pretty boy,”_ the commander chuckled, finally releasing his painful hold on Sergei’s chin and taking a step back so that he could blatantly look the trembling helicopter pilot up and down. _“Now, here’s how this is going to work. You answer all my questions and we’ll get that shoulder patched up, get you a hot meal, a comfy bed and all the trimmings. But you test me, boy, you refuse to answer or worse, you lie to me, and you’ll find out just how many of those rumours about us are true. Understand?”_

Sergei’s hands fluttered uselessly behind his back.

It took a moment for him to realise that rebel commander was waiting him to respond.

He couldn’t speak, the words halting in his throat, so he merely nodded.

_“Good. Well, let’s start with who you are, shall we?”_

_“S-Sergeant Zhukov,”_ he managed to force out, his voice trembling so much that his captors disfigured mouth to twist up into a smile. _“61 st Air Defence Brigade, Russian Ground Forces.”_

_“What, no first name, Sergeant Zhukov?”_

_“Sergei.”_

_“And were you the pilot, Sergeant Zhukov, or did your dead comrade have that honour?”_

Briefly, so briefly it took less than a blink of an eye, he considered lying.

No.

It wasn’t worth it.

Not yet, anyway, not for something so…innocuous...

 _“I was the pilot,”_ he answered truthfully. _“Yevgeny was my co-pilot.”_

 _“What a clever little Sub you must be,”_ his vile captor chuckled coldly as he began to circle Sergei’s still trembling body ever so slowly. _“What were you doing so far behind our lines?”_

_“…we were ordered to find out if the rumours about your base were true.”_

_“Oh? What rumours might those be?”_

Sergei sighed.

At this point he was only telling them what they already knew.

_“Size. Strength. Position.”_

_“And I suppose you were ordered to report everything you discovered back at once.”_

_“Yes.”_

_“And did you?”_

Sergei hesitated.

_“We’ll take that as a yes, shall we?”_

Behind Sergei his original captors chuckled, enjoying the spectacle of the interrogation.

Sergei wished they’d given him a chair.

He was getting dizzier with each passing second and he feared that, just as they had earlier before he’d been captured, his legs were going to give way and that was going to hurt. A lot.

_“Remember what I warned would happen if you lie to me, Sergeant Zhukov.”_

He was asked for his Military ID Number next, so that his capture could be reported, and he gave this piece of information willingly so that his family would know that he was still alive.

It was then that they finally reached the point where Sergei had to strengthen his resolve, knowing what would happen to him whilst at the same time knowing he couldn’t betray his comrades, as they began to ask him about troop deployments, rotations, strength of forces.

No.

Anything he told these rebels could lead to the slaughter of his friends.

So he said nothing.

The rebel commander sighed deeply as his tenth question went unanswered.

_“And we were doing so well…”_

Sergei couldn’t stop himself from startling backwards a step when his captor reached out to stroke the tips of his fingers across the exposed portion his house mark, mockingly gentle.

 _“Put him in with the other prisoners,”_ he ordered sharply, snapping his fingers at the group of men who surged forwards to take hold of Sergei’s restrained arms once more. A sharp cry of pain escaped him _. “We shall see if a couple of days in captivity will loosen your tongue.”_  

~ * ~

Due to the last minute booking Clay had ended up in a rather undesirable seat on the plane, squashed between a rather overweight women and an older gentleman who had been up sixteen times already to use the bathroom. Both of his knees were pressed uncomfortably against the back of the seat in front of him, his seat was broken so it wouldn’t tilt back and when his in-flight meal had arrived it had already gone cold. And they were out of coffee.

Yet none of these factors had anything to do with the restlessness he felt.

He knew that, statistically, the chances of Sergei surviving a _second_ helicopter crash weren’t exactly brilliant but the statistics didn’t take into account the fact that the Sub in question was related to Harmon Rabb, Junior and Senior, who had been born with a natural ability to survive against all odds, always proving the statistics and the critics who used them wrong.

Which meant that, despite the fact that he was still awaiting confirmation, Clay was almost 100% certain that Sergeant Zhukov was now a prisoner of the rebels he had been fighting.

And this, along with the fact that he had been unable to say goodbye to Harm before he’d left for the airport, was the reason that it felt as though ants were crawling all over his skin.

Thinking of his Sub only made the feeling worse.

Harm had to have been notified by now that Sergei had been shot down.

He’d be so worried for his half-brother.

Clay was very much aware of the fact that one of the first things he’d do upon receiving the devastating news would be to try and contact him. Sadly he’d find his cell phone switched off, as per the requirements of flying commercial, and when he, no doubt, tried to get hold of his Som at work Harm would be told the usual line, that he was “out of the country on business” which would, of course, cause him to worry even more than he already had been.

Clay was going to have to work hard to earn the forgiveness of his Sub for this although he sincerely hoped that returning with his half-brother, and this time Sergei wouldn’t be given a choice in the matter, would go a long way towards that goal. As long as Sergei was still…

“Don’t start doubting yourself now, Clay,” he muttered under his breath so as not to disturb the woman dozing beside him. “You said it yourself; he’s part Rabb so if anyone can survive being shot down for the second time it’s Sergei Zhukov. You just…you just have to _find_ him.”

_“Ladies and Gentlemen, we shall soon be landing in Moscow. Local time is 0545. Please return your seats to the upright position and ensure that all trays are properly secure.”_

Clay had had a basic grasp of Russian back when he’d first been recruited by the CIA and now after so many years he considered himself to be fluent with only the slightest trace of an accent when he got emotional. This meant that he was was already moving to secure his tray by the time that the English translation was played, spurring his two neighbours into action. Similarly when the next announcement requested that they fasten their seat belts he had no problem in both understanding the instructions and securing himself whereas both the overweight woman and elderly man required some help to get their seat belts done up.

The landing wasn’t overly dramatic, just a fraction more turbulence than was normal, and yet Clay was one of the few passengers not to react at all to any of the motions or noises.

He had been in significantly worse flights than this, after all, and really, what a little bit of turbulence whilst landing compared to an engine failure due to a time delayed device?

Nothing, that’s what, not that he’s ever told Harm of that particular landing.

Not that his Sub would have a leg to stand on when it came to “interesting” landings…

Having brought only his carry-on there was no need for him to visit baggage claim and so, after making it through passport control, he headed straight for the exit of the quiet airport.

He was just debating what his next move should be when a familiar voice called out,

“Boss!”

Turning he frowned at the figure hurriedly straightening up from where they’d been leaning casually against the all too familiar yellow taxi cab, tossing aside a mostly finished cigarette.

“Alexei?!” Clay found himself sputtering. “What are you doing here?”

“I was told you were returning to Moscow,” Alexei responded with a calm shrug, opening the door of his taxi whilst gesturing for Clay to get in. Shaking his head at the nerve of his secretary for calling their old contact without informing him he obediently slid into the back of the vehicle, pulling out his cell phone as Alexei slipped behind the drivers seat. Their eyes met in the tiny rear view mirror. “I had hoped you would bring beautiful Colonel with you…”

Clay chuckled softly as he set about turning his cell phone back on.

“No, no Colonel McKenzie this time, Alexei,” he muttered, remembering the man’s fondness for Harms fellow JAG Officer who was, admittedly, as impressive as she was beautiful. He pulled out his wallet and held up a wad of bills. “Alexei, I need you to take me to Chechnya.”

Alexei let out a whining curse, shaking his head even as he turned the key in the ignition.

“Why do my American friends always want me to take them to the most dangerous places?”

~ * ~

Hands bound as they were behind his back Sergei could do nothing but brace himself for what he knew was going to be a painful collision with the floor of the room he had just been forcibly shoved into by his captors, a cry of fear escaping him as he felt himself begin to fall…

And then a pair of arms wrapped around his stomach, halting his uncontrolled descent in a rather abrupt manner, and the next thing he knew he was being cradled against someone’s chest. His legs, already trembling, gave out completely and it was only his saviours gentle strength which kept him anywhere near upright although, thankfully, he obviously realised that Sergei wouldn’t be able to get his legs back underneath him and lowered him down.

Sergei felt instantly better the moment he was sitting on the floor.

A door slammed loudly, causing him to flinch, and several locks clicked into place.

_“Petya, free his hands.”_

_“I’ll get the first aid kit.”_

_“Arcady, here, give him some water.”_

Blindly trusting the figure who continued to cradle him against his chest even though they were now sat tangled together on the floor Sergei tilted his head back to allow the cool water to slide down his throat once the lip of the metal canteen was pressed to his lips.

His hands were suddenly free, allowing his numb arms to fall forwards to hang limply at his sides, the movement jostling his injured shoulder yet again and he cried out, choking on the water still being poured into his mouth. The canteen was removed quickly as he coughed.

_“His shoulders dislocated. Let me…”_

_“No! Wait, there’s some shrapnel stuck in that wound…”_

_“Shit. Why didn’t they get one of their medics to look at him before throwing him in here?”_

Sergei whimpered as his injured shoulder was touched and prodded, his head flailing from side to side when he couldn’t force the words out, pleading with them to stop hurting him.

He barely noticed the gentle touch on his neck before one of them cursed.

 _“Fuck. Anatoly, he’s a Sub. I’d recognise that mark anywhere; the Lonely Palace,”_ one of the…four…he thought it was four…strangers announced. _“My sisters both trained there.”_

_“A Sub? I knew they were fucking animals but to leave a Sub in pain? That’s…that’s…”_

_“Vlad, hush,”_ the one cradling him ordered. _“We need to remove the shrapnel, then reset his shoulder and cauterise the wound before he gets an infection or the joint suffers a fracture.”_

_“But how could they leave him like this?”_

_“Vlad, we can talk about that later,”_ the one cradling him, obviously the leader of the group, announced as he gently began to help Sergei shift from his slumped position into a simple kneeling pose, still cradled in his arms. “ _For now, let’s do our duty as Doms and help him.”_

_“Vadim, add a couple more pieces of wood to the fire. We’re going to need it.”_

_“Y-Yes, Petya.”_

A hand gently took hold of his chin, lifting his face until his eyes met the warm brown gaze of the man holding him. His eyes, the window to his soul, were kind and filled with concern.

 _“Hello, little one,”_ he spoke softly, his voice washing over Sergei. During his training he had learnt that, whilst he enjoyed a little bit of bondage and pain whilst playing with his chosen partners, the fastest thing to get him down into sub-space was kindness. He’d always joked with his fellow subs that he had a ‘praise kink’ but in reality it was much simpler than that; growing up in a small village nestled with the Ural Mountains in Siberia life had been harsh due to the demanding environment and so gentleness and kindness, even from his own beloved mother and uncle, had been scarce. Therefore, according to young Sergei, kindness was a reward for good behaviour. It was a little bit twisted, his instructors at the _Lonely Palace_ had been somewhat concerned about his mental state, but he had understood that kindness should be expected not earned. It wasn’t a tool to be used against him. That didn’t stop it being his easiest path to sub-space. _“My name is Arkady Lebedinsky. What’s yours?”_

 _“Sergei,”_ he responded, holding the gentle gaze. _“Sergei Zhukov.”_

Arkady smiled.

He was a handsome man, Sergei noticed, with typical Russian features. Although he was older than Sergei and spoke with a kind of authority that only came with age he could be no older than thirty-five and he bore the distinct mark of a _La Petit Mort_ Dom on his right arm.

 _“I wish we were meeting under different circumstances, Sergei,”_ Arkady murmured softly. _“We need to remove the shrapnel from your arm before it festers and, whilst we’ve been permitted a simple first aid kit minus the usual scissors, we have nothing to dull the pain.”_

Sergei whimpered softly, nodding ever so slightly to show that he understood.

 _“Would you like me to put you down into sub-space whilst we work on your shoulder?”_ Arkady enquired softly, not letting go of Sergei’s chin. _“It might help to dull the pain a bit.”_

_“I…I don’t know…”_

It would help, he knew that, but he also knew that he became all too agreeable whilst in sub-space and couldn’t help but worry that this was some twisted interrogation technique to get him to reveal the secrets he wouldn’t give up earlier. They could be rebels in disguise.

 _“We’re not rebels, if that’s what you’re thinking,”_ the one called Vlad announced. _“I know our word doesn’t mean much but we’re not. We’re Russian, same as you. This isn’t a trick.”_

_“Isn’t…isn’t that what you’d say if it were a trap?”_

_“He’s got you there, Vlad,”_ a third voice chuckled as a young man, close to Sergei in age but significantly taller in height, knelt beside him. _“Petya Bok, originally from Dobryanka, Perm Krai, although my family moved to Moscow when I was six years old. I was captured five weeks ago and have been here ever since. Arkady holds the record having been here for nine weeks. Vladislav was captured alongside me whilst Vadim was captured only a week ago.”_

Sergei turned to look at the other two men as they were spoken of, his chin slipping from Arkady’s gentle hold. Of the small group only Arkady had his mark clearly on display having stripped off his jacket and shirt shirt but the bottom edge of Vadim’s own war bracelet was visible underneath the bulge of fabric where he’d rolled up the sleeves of his green shirt.

 _“Vadim Kuznetsov,”_ the youngest of the four by some years, introduced himself from where he was crouched beside a small wood burning stove. _“Born and raised in Losino-Petrovsky although before entering into my military service I was studying Engineering at Saint Petersburg State Technical University which is, of course, why the Army made me a cook.”_

_“…how does a cook get captured?”_

Sergei’s soft enquiry brought about a rather embarrassed smile from the cook in question.

 _“When they’re sent on a supply run to a nearby village and get lost,”_ Vadim answered honestly and Sergei felt himself starting to relax a bit. If they were rebels attempting to trick him then they had put a lot of forethought into their fictional lives. _“In my defence the head cook didn’t give me a map, just pointed me in the general direction of the village with a list of turns to make. I just happened to go wrong somewhere around the fifteenth turn…”_

Petya moved to kneel directly behind Sergei, his legs straddling one of his.

 _“If you don’t want to go down that’s fine but we do need to sort your shoulder out,”_ Arkady murmured, drawing the injured Subs attention back to him. _“It’s entirely up to you, Sergei.”_

His gaze flickered back and forth between them, taking in their open an honest expressions.

_“I don’t…I don’t think I can handle the pain without…I only like very little pain when…”_

_“You do not need to explain to us, Sergei,”_ Arkady hurried to reassure him, reaching out to carefully cradle Sergei’s jaw, prompting the younger man who was a lot closer to dropping than he had initially thought to lean into the gentle touch like a kitten. _“Let us help you.”_

Sergei couldn’t stop the whimper which escaped him at that moment.

_“Please…”_

What happened during the next few minutes he would never know, slipping down into sub-space under the gentle coaxing of Arkady who had picked up on his ‘praise kink’ before he’d even realised what was happening. Someone braced his good side, or perhaps that should his less injured side as there were definitely bruises there, and he thought he might have whimpered when pain flared in his shoulder but it was strange, the feeling muted, almost sluggish like it was an afterthought. Hands, gentle, gentle hands held his head still and it was perfect, oh so perfect. Lips brushed against his ear as soft words filtered through his mind: _“good boy” “hold still” “perfect” “look at you”_ and so many more. He was jostled, startling him but not enough to draw him out of sub-space, and then it was hot. So, _so_ hot but that was fine. The voice was still there in his ear. The hands were still cradling his face. It was ok.

No.

It was perfect.

Unfortunately, as with most perfect things, it eventually came to an end.

 _“I need you to come back up now, Sergei,”_ Arkady’s voice called out to him, the hands holding his head still becoming slightly more firm than before. _“That’s it. Back you come.”_

The closer he got to the surface the worse the pain got in his shoulder, causing him to choke on a sharp gasp of pain and double over, his face ending up smushed into Arkady’s chest.

 _“I know. I know, it hurts,”_ Arkady soothed him, gesturing for Vadim to get the Sub another drink. _“We got all of the shrapnel out of your shoulder. Luckily there were only a couple of big chunks rather than lots of little ones or it would have taken us a lot longer given that we’ve only got a pair of tweezers. Then, after we’d popped your shoulder back into place, we cauterised the wound to seal it. The burns will hurt, yes, but they’ll be easier to look after.”_

_“…how did you know how to do all of that?”_

_“Well, I learned how to fix a dislocated shoulder playing hockey before I began my career in the army,”_ Arkady answered as he tilted Sergei’s head back so that Vadim could bring the canteen to his lips. _“And Petya was a real doctor before being conscripted into the army.”_

 _“And even then they made me a field medic,”_ the Dom in question chuckled. _“Unlike poor Vadim my instructors at basic actually listened to me when I told them about my skills.”_

 _“Oh…”_ Sergei sighed after a few sips of water _. “Thank you.”_

 _“You’re welcome,”_ Petya responded warmly, nodding to Arkady and moving so as to brace Sergei’s side. _“Now, let’s get you into the bed. You need to rest. It will help you recover.”_

Even though there was only one bed in the room and therefore he knew he should protest, sure that it was one of the others turn to use it, he was too tired to argue and so allowed himself to be transferred from the floor to the bed with its lumpy pillow and thin blanket.

He was asleep before his head even touched the pillow.

~ * ~

Clay sighed, glancing out of the window as Alexei drove them to the meeting point, and found himself turning his cell phone over and over in his hands. He had been stuck waiting to hear back from his contacts within the rebels for almost two weeks and in that time he’d only managed to speak to Harm four times. He missed his Sub but what was worse was the fact that he couldn’t yet be honest about what he was doing, allowing the former Tomcat pilot to assume that he was completing a mission for the CIA or one of the companies allies.

His contacts had finally come through that morning, relating a time and place for Clay to meet with the rebels in order to attempt to negotiate for the release of Sergeant Zhukov who had been officially declared a POW three days after Clay had touched down in Russia.

Before leaving the hotel he’d been staying at he’d cashed in a cheque for $2500, more money than he would have liked to have taken out of his own personal checking account but the amount he thought he might require; $1500 to pay Alexei for his services and $1000 to be broken down into the bribes he would inevitably need. He’d also made sure that he had a suitable non-monetary item to trade for Sergei’s freedom which he knew the rebels would need; wheat. Specifically three boxcars of wheat which had originally been intended for a Russian outpost as part of a much larger shipment of supplies that wouldn’t be missed.

“We’re here, boss.”

Alexei sounded less than pleased to be making this particular announcement.

 _Here_ was a small clearing seemingly in the middle of nowhere, surround by trees with two tracks just wide enough for a car to travel down leading up to it. Honestly, it was the type of place that Clay would have chosen for a clandestine mission or, in the case of some of his less pleasant operations where extreme action had to be pursued, a location to take a target out. It was just the sort of place where you could murder someone and get away with it; no one around for miles to hear or see anything and plenty of places to easily conceal a body.

Just to be on the safe side he checked both his primary and secondly weapons before exiting the car, moving to stand in front of the cooling engine just as an old truck entered the small clearing by the other track. Men armed with assault rifles, their faces concealed with simple balaclavas or masks, jumped down from the back and surged towards him with their rifles aimed at the centre of his chest. In response Clay held perfectly still as he spoke clearly,

_“I’m here to negotiate for the release of one of your prisoners.”_

The rebels, unsurprisingly, looked less than thrilled with this information.

_“I would like to speak to those with the power to enter into such negotiations.”_

_“Any why should we do this for you, American?”_

Clay turned his attention to the rebel who had spoken. He seemed to be in charge of this group, the others glancing towards him now and then as though waiting for his commands.

In answer Clay pulled out the smaller of the two wads of cash in his jacket pocket.

_“Because I’ll pay you to do so.”_

It was immediately obvious that this had been the right thing to say.

He knew better than to hand over all of the cash to them, making a show of counting out $250 which he offered to the leader of the group whilst returning the rest to his pocket.

_“What about the rest?”_

Clay smirked at the leader before answering calmly,

_“When you’ve lived up to your end of the deal I’ll give you the rest.”_

His reluctance obvious the leader agreed and gave instructions for Clay, and therefore Alexei who was his driver, to follow them before barking out orders for his men to return to the truck. Clay waited until they had all climbed back onto the vehicle before slipping into his seat in the back of the taxi, letting out a deep sigh of relief as Alexei started the engine.

“I hope you know what you’re doing, Boss.”

“So do I, Alexei.”

They followed the truck for nearly and hour, winding their way along the narrow track as it twisted through the dense forest until they came across what had once been a small village.

Since being taken over by the rebels the village had been transformed into a makeshift stronghold, complete with barricade made out everything that they could possibly use.

The taxi and its occupants were thoroughly searched at the makeshift and heavily guarded gate before they were permitted to enter the compound, finding themselves surrounded by makeshift tents and lean-to’s which were spread throughout the dilapidated buildings to provide additional shelter and storage areas. Vehicles, ranging from simple little dirt bikes to what appeared to be standard armoured troop carrier of the Russian army, where parked wherever they could physically fit. And then there were the people, literally hundreds of them and each and every one of them was armed to the teeth and glaringly towards them.

“ _That’s it, no more Americans. I don’t care how well they tip. It’s too dangerous.”_

Clay couldn’t help but chuckle as he easily translated Alexei’s muttering as they continued to follow the truck through the camp under the critical eye of hundreds of rebels; men, women and children all glaring at them as though they were responsible for everything that had happened. A few of them even outright challenged them, stepping in front of the taxi in order to force Alexei to stop, guns raised, lingering a moment before moving out of the way.

Eventually the truck pulled up beside a building in the centre of the compound, one of the men quickly jumping down so as to direct Alexei to park up beside it rather than behind it.

“Alexei, stay in the taxi,” Clay ordered as he pulled on the doors release handle, his other hand automatically smoothing down his blue tie. “Speak to no one. I shall return presently.”

“Yes, Boss.”

As soon as he exited the car Clay found himself surrounded by four men who towered over him, no doubt chosen in an effort to intimidate him. It didn’t work. He kept his head high as he was escorted into the building and through to a room where their leader stood waiting.

_“Why have you come to me, American?”_

He hesitated for a fraction of a second as studied the scars distorting the man’s appearance as his CIA training had taught him to, his mind automatically supplying a list of weapons which could have caused them, whilst also cataloguing the fact that he was a Dom who had studied at _La Petit Mort_. All of this information could be useful during the negotiations.

 _“I am here to barter for the freedom of one of your Russian prisoners,”_ Clay announced, his gaze meeting that of the leaders remaining eye and holding it. _“Sergeant Sergei Zhukov.”_

It didn’t escape his notice that several of the rooms occupants, including the man before him, reacted to the name which he took as confirmation that Sergei _was_ being held there.

_“…and why should I give such an important bargaining chip? His people will want him back.”_

_They haven’t, yet,_ Clay thought to himself somewhat bitterly, _have they?_

 _“He is to be my brother-in-law,”_ Clay explained as simply as he could. _“I would see him safe.”_

For a long moment the man he was addressing was silent, a thoughtful expression on his twisted face before he finally let out a sharp sigh and nodded his head, enquiring sharply,

_“And what do you offer in exchange?”_

_“Wheat. I’m sure you have need of it,”_ Clay responded calmly, noticing the way that the rooms other occupants shifted with interest even as their leader held still. _“A boxcar full.”_

 _“…very well,”_ the rebel leader finally agreed. _“Yuri, retrieve Sergeant Zhukov for…?”_

 _“Webb,”_ Clay offered his name without hesitation. _“Clayton Webb.”_

 _“…for Mr Webb,”_ their leader concluded _“And whilst we wait for the Sergeant to join us you can make arrangements to have your payment delivered to us within twenty-four hours. I’m sure you’ll understand that well want to hold onto both of you until it arrives, Mr Webb.”_

 _“No, I’m afraid that that won’t be acceptable,”_ Clay responded as the man who had been addressed as Yuri ducked out of the room. _“The wheat is waiting for you at a nearby location. A contact of mine has organised it. Sergeant Zhukov and I will be leaving today.”_

If looks could kill Clay would have been struck down in that moment.

_“Give me the location.”_

_“Not until I see for myself that Sergeant Zhukov is safe and unharmed and you agree to let us leave,”_ Clay held firm, used to negotiating deals such as this although normally he wasn’t quite so emotionally invested in the outcome. Not that his calm expression away a single thing that he was thinking.. _“Then, and only then, will I give you the location of the grain.”_

He held himself perfectly still as the rebel leader let out a sharp curse, displeased by the fact that he had lost control over the negotiations, before nodding his head once in agreement.

_“But…”_

_“We need the wheat,”_ the leader snapped at the young man who had spoken, silencing him. _“It is more than the Russians would have been willing to pay for him. He’s only a Sergeant.”_

Clay sincerely doubted that the Russians would even be willing to consider a trade at all; in their eyes the simplest way to retrieve their POW’s was to win the war and liberate them.

After a wait of nearly ten minutes during which time Clay remained perfectly still even as the rebels shifted around him they heard the tell-tale sound of approaching footsteps, one steady and one significantly less so, and then finally a hunched over figure was dragged in by his arm and deposited in front of Clay, hands bound and face covered with a hessian sack.

Clay felt as though a weight had been lifted from his shoulders when the sack was removed in single motion, revealing Sergei’s handsome young face to everyone in the room. And yet along with the relief he felt at having found his future brother-in-law there was also a heavy dose of grief and anger when he saw the state that the young Sub was in; although he had only been captured a couple of weeks ago his cheeks were already sunken with hunger and there was a collection of bruises in various states of healing along his jawline and across his cheekbones. There was a healing cut along his hairline and he was holding himself in such a way that it was obvious that there was something wrong with either his shoulder or his arm.

“Sergei?”

At the sound his name the Sub brought his gaze up from the ground to meet his.

“…Mr Webb?” he gasped softly, realisation dawning in his tired eyes. “Is Harm…?”

“I’m here to take you to him,” Clay interrupted him gently whilst somehow still managing to sound firm for the sake of any of the rebels who spoke English. _“_ Or I can take you back to your unit, whichever you’d prefer although I think we both know which Harm would prefer.”

Sergei smiled weakly.

“I would like to go to Harm, please.”

“Ok, then,” Clay nodded, squeezing the Subs uninjured arm gently as he moved past to pick up a pad and pen from the desk behind the rebel leader, quickly jotting down the location he had agreed upon with his contact. _“You’ll find the wheat here. We’ll be leaving now.”_

“Wait,” Sergei gasped as Clay began to lead him towards the door. “I can’t leave the others.”

Clay frowned, pausing.

He’d assumed that Sergei wasn’t their only prisoner, he couldn’t be in a conflict such as this, but he hadn’t considered that the young man would feel the urge to free anyone alongside himself. A foolish assumption, he realised now, given how similar he was to his half-brother and if there was one thing that his Sub would never do it would be leave someone behind.

“What are their names?”

Sergei offered him a grateful smile as he answered quickly, his voice trembling,

“Arkady Lebedinsky, Vadim Kuznetsov, Vladislav Tukhachevsky and Petya Bok.”

 _“I will offer you another boxcar of wheat to free these four men,”_ Clay announced as he turned to face the rebel leader once more. His only response was a snort of disbelief. He wasn’t surprised; Sergei alone had cost a single boxcar. _“Two more boxcars of wheat.”_

 _“He’s got cash on him,”_ the rebel who had met him at the rendezvous announced. Clay reached into his pocket, withdrawing the remaining notes. _“We need money for supplies…”_

 _“Three boxcars of wheat and…”_ Clay hurriedly counted the remaining notes, holding them up for the rebels to see. _“…$750 for Sergeant Zhukov and the four men he mentioned.”_

 _“Four less mouths to feed,”_ a new voice pointed out. _“And the Russian haven’t even contacted us about getting them back and one of them has been here for two months.”_

_“…fine.”_

A hand was extended towards him, beckoning for the money which was handed over.

_“Yuri, fetch the other prisoners and escort them all out of the compound.”_

~ * ~

Saying goodbye to Arkday, Vadim, Vladislav and Petya was a lot harder than Sergei had been expecting as the four Doms had been taking it in turns looking after him since he’d been brought to the hut they were all kept in, tending to his injuries, making sure that he had the largest portion of the meagre rations they were given to share and comforting him after each and every time he was dragged before the rebel leader for yet another interrogation.

 _“You look after yourself, you hear?”_ Arkady ordered him softly, tugging on the back of Sergei’s neck to pull him into a hug once they’d all alighted from the overly crowded taxi at the nearest Russian Army Base to the Rebel Camp. Sergei nodded, pressing his face into the older man’s neck. _“And you’d better keep in contact. You’ve got all of our details. Write.”_

Again all Sergei could do was nod once more, his hand clutching at the piece of paper Clay had torn from his pocket notebook to be used for the very purpose Arkady had spoken of.

 _“Ok,”_ Petya muttered, literally worming his way between the two of them to take Arkady’s place in the hug, causing the other Dom to sputter slightly whilst Sergei couldn’t help but chuckle. _“It’s my turn. I need you to promise me that you’ll have that shoulder looked at by a proper doctor when you get to America and then I want you to tell me exactly what the doctor says, alright? I don’t care how long it’ll take the letter to reach me; I want to know.”_

 _“Yes, Petya,”_ Sergei murmured with a small smile as he leaned into the hug. _“I promise.”_

During the journey from the camp Petya had made their rescuer perfectly aware of all of Sergei’s injuries, going into detail about everything they had done and making it clear what he wished they’d been able to have done and what he thought should now be done. Clay had taken the information on board totally seriously despite the fact that Petya had had the appearance of a mother hen clucking over her chick for the entire conversation. He truly was a natural born caregiver and worrier and would be perfect for a Sub with Pet mentality.

 _“Good,”_ Petya concluded, his voice thick with emotion. _“Be safe. No more helicopters.”_

Sergei smiled indulgently but made no promise to give up his helicopters; he loved flying too much to do that. What he would do was make sure he never flew in a war zone ever again.

 _“My turn, Petya, that’s enough fussing,”_ Vadim announced with a soft chuckle, pulling his fellow Dom out of the way before burrowing his way into Sergei’s arms. _“Be happy, Sergei.”_

 _“You too, Vadim,”_ Sergei responded, rubbing his cheek against the Dom’s in a clear gesture of affection. _“No more wandering through the woods looking for supplies. Please. Stay safe.”_

 _“I promise,”_ Vadim chuckled, returning the cheek rub enthusiastically. _“Look after yourself.”_

Unlike Arkady and Petya, Vadim moved aside willingly after giving Sergei one last squeeze so that Vladislav could wrap him up in his own strong hug. After learning that Vladislav had trained at **Strength and Honour (Russian)** , the Dominant version of his own house, they had grown quite close as both houses had a habit of training their pupils in a similar in order to create natural partnerships between the Doms and Subs who studied there and if Sergei didn’t prefer female Doms as a rule he would probably have fallen for Vladislav Kuznetsov.

 _“If you ever need me I’m only a phone call away once I’ve finished my military service,”_ the handsome Dom spoke clearly, his lips brushing the shell of Sergei’s ear. _“Always. I promise.”_

 _“Thank you, Vladislav,”_ Sergei responded, leaning into the gentle touch and tightening his hold on the Doms jacket. He didn’t want to let go. He didn’t want to say goodbye. Not yet. Somewhere behind him a set of keys were dropped onto the ground, followed by a soft Russian curse, and then Clay cleared his throat deliberately. He finally pulled away from the Dom, turning so that he was facing all four of them. _“Thank you for everything, my friends.”_

 _“You make sure he gets to his brother in one piece, Mr Webb,”_ Arkady called out as his half-brothers Dom moved to stand beside Sergei in a silent show of support. _“Look after him.”_

_“I will.”_

Watching the four men who had looked after him throughout his captivity walk away from him brought tears to his eyes, his throat closing up as he struggled to hold them back, and he was thankful when Clay took hold of his elbow and gently helped him back into the taxi.

“Where to now, Boss?”

“Moscow Airport, please, Alexei.”

Alexei nodded, starting the engine and turning the vehicle back towards the main gate,

“No problem, Boss.”

Sergei felt himself starting to shake the further away from the base the taxi moved, his tears spilling over as he turned his attention to his hands, clenching them into tight fists on top of his thighs in an attempt to conceal how much they were beginning to tremble. He couldn’t understand why he was reacting like this; he wasn’t some emotional submissive that relied on their Dominant for absolutely everything, that broke down over the slightest little thing.

He was a _soldier_.

He was a _pilot_.

He was strong and capable and had been through…well…not _worse_ situations that this but certainly similar in terms of the emotional strain so why was he breaking down this time?

“Sergei?”

“Sir?”

His response was completely automatic, something which had been drummed into him first at his pleasure house and then within the restrictions of the Russian Army. His tone of voice, however, was entirely that of a submissive speaking to a Dominant. When he was speaking to a superior officer he tended to keep his voice strong; for a Dom he kept it soft and light.

As he turned his head to meet the concerned gaze of his brothers Dom a hand reached out to carefully wipe away his tears with a deceptively soft thumb before cupping his jaw gently.

“Would you permit me to comfort you?”

It was an oddly formal request, accompanied by a hand settling over one of his clenched fists, and Sergei found himself nodding in response. Within moments his body had been manoeuvred so that his upper body was stretched across the back seat of the taxi, his head coming to rest on the Dominants thigh in a purely platonic position. At first he kept his legs twisted around so that they were in the footwell but after only a couple of minutes he bent them at the knee and brought them up so that he shins were pressed against the door. It wasn’t particularly comfortable, given how hard the door was and the fact that the handle for the window was pressing into his right ankle, but it was worth it when Clay began to him softly as he ran his fingers soothingly through Sergei’s dirty hair, separating out the clumps.

“You will see them again,” Clay murmured after a little while. “Of that I have no doubt.”

“Thank you…”

@@@@@

Sergei ended up dozing for the majority of the four hour journey to Moscow Airport and so was feeling somewhat groggy, not to mention hungry, when Clay encouraged him to exit the taxi once it had come to a complete stop. His limbs felt heavy whilst his head was almost too light, similar to how they felt when he was dropping into sub space but much less pleasant.

He was vaguely aware of Clay handing Alexei an envelope, obviously filled with money, after the Russian had finished unloading Clays luggage from his dilapidated yellow taxi. Sergei was completely unprepared, however, for when he was pulled into a farewell hug by the affable driver, twin kisses being delivered briskly to his cheeks as he was ordered to take care. Clay received a firm handshake rather than a hug, along with a request that he please make sure to leave at least six months before finding some excuse to ask Alexei to risk his life for crazy Americans. All three of them had chuckled when Clay had offered only a wry smirk in return.

And then, a gentle hand settling on the small of his back, Sergei entered the busy airport.

“Once we’ve got the flight sorted out we’ll head to the duty free and get you something more suitable to wear,” Clay announced as he seamlessly steered Sergei in the direction he wanted them to go with the hand on his back, carrying his bag with his free hand. Together they joined the long queue for the ticket desk. “Once Harm has finished fussing over you, and trust me there will be a _lot_ of fussing if I know my submissive, we’ll start making the necessary arrangements to have your things shipped to DC. I’d also like to get some proper food into you before we take off; I somehow doubt that you’ve been given as much food as you’ve been needed in gin order to recover from your injuries. Speaking of, how are they?”

“Aching,” Sergei admitted, bringing a hand up to hover over the point where the shrapnel had been imbedded in his shoulder. He dreaded to think what the scar would look like, given that they’d basically had to melt his flesh to seal the wound. “But it’s not too bad.”

“We’ll get you some painkillers as well,” Clay promised. “But only once you’ve eaten.”

Sergei nodded, agreeing that he needed to line his stomach before taking even over-the-counter painkillers after having survived on barely anything for the duration of his captivity.

A cold chill spread down his spine.

He’d only been a prisoner of war for a relatively short time in retrospect and yet he knew he would struggle to come to terms with it. It left him with a great respect for those who had been captured and held by their enemy for years in previous conflicts; granted submissive’s hadn’t been permitted to take up arms during both of the World Wars but some had still ended up as POW’s, most notably during the fall of Singapore in 1942 when a vast number of submissive nurses and orderlies were captured. Or Vietnam, the conflict which had resulted in his existence thanks to his father being captured, which has been the first time that America had allowed submissive’s to hold combat positions, a fact which some people still protested to this day and age. Britain had held out until the Gulf War, most probably because of the treatment of those submissive’s who had been captured by the Japanese.

He honestly didn’t know if he could have coped with years of captivity like they had.

When it was their turn to speak to the young woman behind the desk Clay shamelessly used the fact that he was a “United States Government Official” to get preferential treatment, although it confused Sergei when he claimed to be from the State Department when he knew for a fact that he was the Deputy Director of the CIA, and in no time they had their non-stop flight to Washington DC booked, their tickets printed and were in the duty free.

They followed Clay’s plan to the letter and by the time they boarded their flight Sergei had eaten 2/3 of a _knish_ , only stopping because stomach had protested, been dosed up on pain killers and had swapped his tattered flight suit for a pair of jeans, a plain white long-sleeved t-shirt, an olive green hooded sweatshirt and a black leather jacket. His boots, however, he kept as they didn’t look out of place with his new outfit and had been thoroughly broken in.

He was asleep, head resting on Clays shoulder, before they even finished taking off.

~ * ~

Sergei had been asleep for almost six hours, sleeping through everything that the flight had thrown their way thus far, using the tiny pillow and blanket provided by the pretty young air hostess. They had another five hours left of this flight and Clay suspected that the injured submissive would remain in the land of dreams until it was time for them to leave the plane.

He, on the other hand, couldn’t have slept even if he wanted to.

It was instinct, both in terms of his Dominant nature and the training he had received as a CIA Agent; he wouldn’t be able to rest until Sergei was safely delivered to his brothers arms.

And so, instead of catching up on his sleep, Clay had bought a book in the airport and was trying to read what turned out to be a pile of romantic drivel masquerading as a spy novel.

After a particularly painful mistake on the authors part Clay found a new way to entertain himself for the duration of the flight. Plucking his pen out of his jackets inside pocket, one that his mother had given him upon his acceptance into the CIA, he began to correct the glaringly obvious mistakes, crossing things out and annotating the pages in the margins.

It was strangely cathartic.

Of course, he couldn’t let anyone _see_ his in depth corrections even though it would help the author a great deal to actually speak to someone who has organise a covert extraction from a hostile country. The book would be burned upon his return home but that didn’t stop him.

“…did this author do _any_ research at all?” he muttered under his breath, crossing out a particularly inaccurate paragraph about a bomb going off. “That is not how it would hap…”

“May I attend you, sir?”

Hearing the vaguely familiar voice of the young air hostess who had been looking after their needs for the flight so far, her thick Russian accent causing her voice to sound almost like a purr, Clay glanced up from the page he was on and found her gazing down at him hopefully.

She had removed the blue silk scarf which was obviously part of her stylish uniform so as to reveal the single pink lily bloom on her pale skin, marking her as a La Petit Mort submissive. 

“No, thank you,” he responded politely. “I have no need of attendance.”

She frowned, glancing quickly at Sergei, before focusing on Clay once more.

 _Ah_ , Clay thought himself, _she thinks Sergei is neglecting my needs_.

“I assure you, everything is fine. This is my submissive’s younger brother who has just been through something of an ordeal,” Clay explained softly, nodding when he expression changed to one of compassion and understanding. “I am delivering him to my submissive so that he can be properly looked after. I thank you for your concern but I promise, all is well.”

“Then I apologise for bothering you.”

“It’s fine,” Clay reassured her. “You weren’t to know.”

The remainder of the flight passed by uneventfully and, just as Clay had predicted, Sergei slept right through to the moment that the ‘FASTEN SEATBELT’ sign was switched on and their final approach was announced. Waking him felt cruel but it was necessary, the Dom helping the groggy young man to sit properly in his seat and get his belt secured in time.

“…we are here already?”

“Sergei, you’ve been asleep for almost eleven hours,” Clay informed him fondly, pointing to the digital clock which gave them the current time. Sergei gasped softly. “Yes, we’re here.”

“Oh…” Sergei mumbles through a wide yawn. “Sorry, you should have woken me up...”

“No, you obviously needed the rest.”

As he knew from flying with Harm pilots of any kind make the work passengers in planes, particularly during a landing or a takeoff, and Sergei was no different, muttering under his breath about how much more comfortable helicopter landings were as they landed hard.

Clay led his charge off of the plane, through the security checks and passport control.

He held his breath as they checked Sergei’s passport, a fake which Clay always carried with him for emergency situations and had an interchangeable photograph. A quick stop off at a photo booth in airport had supplied Sergei’s likeness and, thankfully, it soon passed all the requirements. Sergei’s things were still back at his squadrons base but Clay would arrange for them to be shipped over once he’d gotten the submissive’s military service terminated.

“Is Harm not meeting us?”

“No. Due to the circumstances I felt it best to keep him in the dark until I had manage to rescue you, rather than get his hopes up and leave him waiting for however long it took,” Clay explained, heading over to the duty free where he picked out a simple Christmas card, paying for it with his card. Sergei offered a grunt of understanding even as he frowned in confusion at the seemingly random purchase. “And this way we get to surprise him. Now, I don't know if you know this, Sergei, but your father was shot down on Christmas Eve 1969.”

“No, I didn't…” Sergei murmured, looking around him at the decorations covering almost every inch of the busy airport before his gaze settled on the red and green ‘ _Countdown to Christmas_ ’ calendar which had been put up beside the arrivals/departures board. The ‘ _One Day To Go’_ was gold and covered in sparkles, making it stand out. “…is it Christmas Eve?”

Clay nodded.

“I knew it was winter but I didn’t realise…I thought…” Sergei mumbled weakly, tears pooling in his eyes as he turned away from the decorations to face his rescuer. “…I had no idea…”

It was almost automatic to reach out and pull the younger man into his arms just as he would have if it had been Harm who had turned to him with such a mournful expression.

“It’s alright, Sergei,” he reassured him, resting the hand holding the card at the small of the submissive’s back whilst he rubbed at the space between Sergei’s shoulder blades with the other. “Trust me, I know how much being held captive can mess with your sense of time.”

Sergei pulled back only enough to allow him to gaze up at Clay with a startled frown,

“You have been…?”

“Yes,” Clay confirmed, using the hand not wound around Sergei’s waist to gently wipe away the single tear that had fallen down the younger man’s cheek. “But I'm afraid that I can't say anything more than that, just that I understand what you’ve been through, to a degree...”

As a Dominant his own experiences of captivity, particularly when it came to the methods of interrogation that his captors had used, would no doubt differ greatly from those that the submissive trembling in his arms had suffered through, both physically and psychologically.

“Oh.”

“Now, it being Christmas Eve there is absolutely no point in heading for your brothers apartment straight away,” he announced firmly, adjusting his hold on Sergei so that he could lead the younger man out of the airport with an around around the small of his back. “Your brother is a creature of habit so we shall be going straight to the Vietnam Memorial because I guarantee you that's where Harm will be. He likes his routines, does that man.”

Of course, as luck would have it, Harm was _not_ at the Memorial when they arrived twenty-five minutes later, the cab driver having taken the most direct route possible at this time of the day, and Clay wished he’d thought to get Sergei a proper coat; the simple black leather jacket was going to do little protect its wearer from the snow falling steadily around them.

“I do not mind the cold, Mr Webb,” Sergei reassured him when he posed this thought to the younger man whilst leading him to the correct panel where his fathers name was engraved. “To be honest I hadn’t really noticed; this is mild compared to the winters of my childhood.”

“Yes, I suppose it is,” Clay chuckled softly, bringing them to a halt. “Here he is…”

He reached out, tapping the ‘ _H’_ of ‘ _Harmon Rabb Sr.’_ and was unsurprised when Sergei stepped up to the wall, bringing his own hand up to rest across the name of his father.

“There are so many names…”

“Yes,” Clay agreed, his voice just as choked as Sergei’s. “There are.”

“I wish I could have known him.”

“I’m sure Harm will be more than willing to share his memories with you,” he reassured the younger man. They weren’t the only ones visiting the wall, several people had come out to remember loved ones, and it would be even busier the following day, Clay was sure. “As will Trish, Harms mother, who’s been wanting to meet you ever since Harm told her about you.”

“She does?”

“Of course she wants to meet you,” Clay reiterated with a smile. Pausing he retrieved the card from his jacket pocket and handed it over to the younger man along with his pen. “I thought you might like to leave your father a card. You don’t have to, of course, I just…”

“No, thank you,” Sergei interrupted him, taking the card and pen. “I would like to.”

Turning away to give him some privacy should he want it Clay caught sight of a familiar red sports car pulling into the parking lot and decided to orchestrate a proper surprise for Harm.

“I believe your brother shall be arriving shortly,” he said as he turned back to the submissive who had taken the initiative to tucked the card into the side of the memorial as others had already done on other panels, leaving it so that his message could be read. “Why don’t we step out of the way for a moment, then we can surprise Harm once he’s seen your card?”

Sergei readily agreed.

They moved along to the next panel, turning their backs on Harm as he approached. Clay watched out of the corner of his eye as his partner unwittingly copied his younger brothers earlier actions, removing his leather driving glove so that he could trace the letters of his fathers name. He also spotted the moment that his lover caught sight of the greetings card.

He nudged to Sergei, motioning for him to go over.

 “ _To Harmon Rabb Sr_ ,” Harm read aloud to himself, his voice heavy with confusion as he frowned down at the unfamiliar block handwriting on the card. “ _The father I never knew_.”

“Now we're all here.”

The look of wonder on his partners face warmed him in ways that no coat ever could. 

“...Sergei?”

“Hello, my brother.”

Their hug was like something out of a film, their arms wrapping so tightly around each other that it was a miracle either of them could breath, and Clay was unsurprised to see tears in their eyes. They held onto each other for a long moment before Harm pulled back to ask,

“How did you get here?”

Clay couldn’t resist such a perfectly orchestrated moment to make his presence known.

 “Well, I have a friend in Argun who has a friend in Grozny...”

Now it was Clays turn to have that look of wonder directed at him.

“That's what I was trying to call you about,” he explained, thinking about the phone calls he had made back in Moscow, one whilst Sergei had been in the changing rooms and a second as they’d been waiting for takeoff. That one had earned him a reprimand for using his phone on a plane. Neither had been answered. “After making it to the rebel camp where he was being held I traded three boxcars of wheat for Sergeant Zhukov and a few friends he’d made whilst in captivity. We've been on the road for…eighteen hours. Merry Christmas, Harm.”

“Clay…”

People always assumed that Harm was the Dominant in their relationship when they first met due to his borderline ridiculous height and strong personality but all anyone had to do to discover his submissive qualities was to watch him kiss his partner; even now when he was the one instigating the kiss it was Clay who had control of it, bringing his hands up to cradle the back of his partners head and tilt his head to the side, just the way he like it. In comparison Harms strong hands clutched desperately at the lapels of his coat, holding on seemingly for dear life as his legs trembled, his knees bending to bring him closer to Clay.

Had their reunion taken place in the privacy of their home, either Harms studio apartment or Clays town house, the submissive would have sunk all the way down to his knees and…

But they weren’t at home.

And they weren’t alone.

“Later, Harm,” Clay promised against his lovers lips before pulling back, separating the two of them, his thumb stroking across the single lily blossom marking the Naval Officers neck. It was navy blue with golden highlights; even during his training at La Petit Mort Harmon Rabb Jr had known that his future lay with the Navy and had chosen the colours of his house mark accordingly. “Now, am I to assume that Sergei shall be staying with you for the time being?”

Offering his partner a broad smile Harm nodded and turned back to his younger brother,

“How long are you here for?”

“However long you’ll have me,” Sergei responded with his own almost identical smile. If anyone ever doubted that the two were related Clay would suggest they compare their facial expressions; every smile, frown and grimace that he had seen on Sergei’s handsome face were carbon copies of those he was used to seeing on Harms. “Or however long I am allowed. I do not know if I shall be able to acquire a suitable visa that will allow me to stay…”

“Leave all of the technicalities with me, Sergei,” Clay interjected before Harm could speak, reaching out to pat the Russians uninjured shoulder. “I’ll get everything sorted out for you.”

“Thank you, Mr Webb.”

“I can’t believe your finally here,” Harm breathed, beaming down at his half-brother as he slung an arm around Sergei’s shoulders. This brotherly action, unfortunately, aggravated the healing wound on his shoulder and caused the Russian to hiss sharply. “You’re hurt! Clay…”

“I shall be taking Sergei to see a doctor in the morning, Harm,” Clay hurried to reassure his worried partner who pulled his arm away as though burned. “The wound has been treated by a medic, admittedly not under the best circumstances, and is in the process of healing. Sergei requires medical attention, yes, but it is not urgent enough to require a hospital.”

“Mr Webb is right,” Sergei agreed, placing a reassuring hand on his brothers chest. “I was wounded during the crash but it has had weeks to heal. It just pulled a little bit, that’s all.”

Harm didn’t look convinced but let the subject drop.

“How did the two of you get here? I didn’t see your car in the parking lot, Clay…”

“We took a taxi from the airport.”

The pilot turned lawyer cursed under his breath,

“Damn. It’s times like this I regret owning a sports car. I can only take one of you…”

“No, don’t worry about me, Harm,” Clay interjected quickly, reaching up to cup his lovers jaw with one of his hands. “You take Sergei home, get him settled in. I’ll come by later.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes,” he assured him, stroking his thumb across Harms cheekbone. “I promised mother I'd pop round once I was back, family traditions and all that. Go on. I’ll join you in a little while.”

~ * ~

Harm couldn’t stop himself from glancing across at his brother every chance he got on the journey back to his apartment, cataloguing everything he could about the younger Sub who had slumped against the window and dozed off within five minutes of putting his seatbelt on. It was obvious that his half-brother had been through an ordeal, pain evident on his face even as he slept, and the clothes he wore seemed to dwarf his frame leading Harm to fear that he hadn’t been eating well since he’s been reported as missing, presumed captured.

It physically pained him to wake the younger man once he’d ed his car inside his garage, shaking Sergei’s knee as gently as possible until the Russian began to stir. He didn’t wake fully, however, rather stumbling up the stairs in a half-asleep state and relying entirely on Harm to guide him in the right direction and to stop him from walking into walls or doors.

“Let’s get you into the shower,” Harm murmured as he closed the apartments door behind them, putting the chain on before guiding his half-brother up the four steps which linked the lower level of his studio apartment with the upper level where his bedroom and bathroom were located, helping him to avoid the end of the king size bed and the sharp corners of the beautifully carved wooden chest which held all of his toys. A gift from Clay after he accepted his lovers collar. “And while you wash up I’ll go make us some food. Anything you fancy?”

Sergei shook his head, his eyelids drooping.

“Do you need any help getting in the shower?”

“ _Please_ …”

Harm didn’t need to speak Russian to understand what his brother had said.

Leaving him for the length of time it took to get the shower running, making sure that the water was hot but not _too_ hot, Harm returned to his bedroom to help his half-brother strip down to just his boxers. He _had_ lost weight, a lot for such a short length of time, and the scars around his shoulder were painfully red but obviously healing, no fresh blood in sight.

Harm couldn’t help but study the mark upon his half-brothers neck.

He’d only seen a portion of it when they’d met before, the rest covered by the collar of his uniform, and the photographs he’d seen of other Subs from his brothers Pleasure House simply didn’t do the colours justice, particularly not the reds, yellows or even the greens.

They were absolutely stunning.

It was only Sergei yawning uncontrollably that drew his attention back to the situation.

“Right, in you get. Shampoo is on the shelf. Soaps in the holder.”

“Thank you, brother.”

Turning his back on the younger man Harm hesitated for a moment, just long enough to hear his half-brother remove his boxers and step under the spray of the water, before quickly laying out a pair of his softer sweatpants, one of his old US NAVY t-shirts and a clean pair of boxers on the bed for Sergei to put on. He then gathered up the Sergei’s clothes and placed them in the laundry basket before making his way down the steps to his kitchen.

He decided that something light but filling and most importantly nutritious would be best for Sergei and so set about making a deliciously thick vegetable soup and was just pouring it into a couple of bowls when his brother e,erred from the shower, dressed in the clothes provided and joined him in the kitchen. Each bowl was then placed in the centre of a plate which held a couple of slices of fresh bread covered with a thin layer of butter at the edge.

“Well eat on the sofa, I think,” Harm announced, adding soup spoons to the plates before handing Sergei’s plate over to him. “Go sit down. What would you like to drink? I have…”

“Water will be fine,” Sergei interrupted him. “Thank you.”

Nodding Harm filled a couple of classes with water from the plastic jug he kept in the fridge and placed them on the table in front of the sofa. He then grabbed his own plate and joined his brother, easing himself down into the cushions so close to Sergei that their legs touched.

He could have sat more towards the arm of the sofa but he needed the contact, as simple as it was, to reassure him that his younger brother was really there, that Sergei was finally safe.

“This is good, brother,” Sergei murmured. “You are a much better cook than I.”

“I like cooking,” Harm explained happily, sampling the soup for himself. It could have done with more carrots but never mind. “I always have. Particularly after I became a vegetarian.”

“I did not know you were a vegetarian.”

“My time in Vietnam searching for my… _our_ father rather put me off meat,” Harm confessed, shuddering as he thought of the unpleasant food that he’d been forced to eat when he and his contacts were as desperate for food as the people of the war torn country. “But I like to think that in all the healthier for it. I don’t know how Mac stays fit eating so many burgers.”

Sergei’s smile was genuine but tired.

“I have never tried a true American burger,” he confessed, dunking a piece of his bread into his soup, popping it into his mouth and licking his fingertips clean afterwards. Harm was them required to act lest his brother cover himself in soup as he tried to reach forwards for his glass of water, his exhaustion making him less coordinated than usual. “I’m sorry…”

“Not your fault,” Harm reassured him. “Let me get that for you.”

He was forced to intervene again only a couple of minutes later when Sergei literally fell asleep between one spoonful of soup and the next, his spoon clattering into the bowl the only warning that Harm received before his half-brother was slumping bonelessly back into the sofas comfortable embrace. Thankfully his reactions were quick, being a pilot and all, and he was able to grab hold of the plate and move both it and it’s contents out of the way.

Rising fluidly to his feet he carried both plates into the kitchen, dumping them by the sink before quickly returning to his brother. Sergei’s face was completely relaxed, his head tilted back at a somewhat unnerving angle, and his arms had dropped to rest limply at his sides.

“Oh, Sergei…”

Deciding that letting him sleep would be for the best Harm set about the interesting task of transforming the sofa into a temporary bed for his half-brother, spreading a sheet over the cushions and finding a suitable a,punt of blankets for the time of year, without waking him.

It was just as he was carefully guiding Sergei’s body into a more suitable position for sleep that the apartment door swung open to admit Clay, his Dom instantly moving to assist him.

“Thank you.”

Harms words were for more than Clay lifting Sergei’s legs up onto the sofa.

They were for everything that his wonderful lover had done to make this possible.

Clay offered him a smile, reaching out to pull their foreheads together by a hand on the back of his lovers neck, his thumb gently stroking the strip of skin between his collar and his hair.

“You’re welcome, beloved.”

And for that moment everything was right in the world.

~ * ~

 **A/N** Given that it has taken me well over a year to get this first chapter finished I make no promises as to how quickly the second and third parts will follow. Lol. I’d like to thank Kiera Marcos for allowing me to set this story in the D/S universe that she created for her ‘Ties That Bind’ series which you can read on her website. This first part was pretty tame in terms of the kinky stuff but the next one, if I stick to my plan, will be a little bit more interesting. Comments are always welcome, particularly when it’s a story from a less popular show. X 


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